There’s a distinctive thrill to works that I’ll call “megavani novels” — narratives that aspire not just to tell a story but to erect entire ecosystems of meaning: sprawling chronologies, polyphonic perspectives, civilizations with their own calendars, languages that bend syntax into cultural argument. These are books that demand scale as a formal necessity, not merely a spectacle. They do the heavy lifting of fiction’s oldest ambition: to make us feel the world in its complexity while asking us to reckon with its moral weight.